Free At Death's Window by Jim Kelly

in twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Mark—’
    ‘I’ll get through to the National Trust,’ said Birley. ‘Big question is, do they keep the film, and if they do keep it, for how long? Scientists tend to keep data. The Trust’s doing a lot of work tracking seal colonies. Well, it’s providing the data. So we’ve got chances, sir. Good chances. Next question – do they let the camera run through the hours of darkness? Most don’t. Some do. We need to be lucky.’
    Birley crossed his fingers and turned away, back into the ‘room’, CID’s open-plan main office. George Valentine’s desk was out there too, but the last time he’d been seen sitting at it was at the New Year’s Eve party when he couldn’t stand up.
    The Mitchell’s Bank killing wasn’t the only major case on Lynn CID’s patch. At the far end of the room a whiteboard had been set up with suspect pictures, maps, family trees and SOCO shots. Acting DS Fiona Campbell was talking to the team assigned to tracking down the source of adulterated drugs being sold on the streets of the town. Three local dealers had been arrested and charged, but none was prepared to name their original source of the adulterated cocaine. Several addicts had been admitted to A&E suffering from the side effects of the supply. One had died. The supply to the street had stopped, but that might not last. Campbell’s team was working twenty-four seven to try and trace the origins of the drug before more users died.
    Shaw, standing at his door, let his eye rest on a full-length mortuary shot of the victim – the left arm below the elbow jet black where the skin had died, while the rest of him had still been alive. This symptom, known as necrosis, was a telltale sign that cocaine was being mixed with Levamisole – a drugstore medicine used to help control cancer. The problem with Levamisole was that it could wipe out white blood cells, leaving the extremities to ‘die’ while the patient fell sick. The resulting necrosis – of hands, feet, arms – was so characteristic of drug abuse that very few of its victims would willingly present themselves for treatment at A&E, preferring to suffer instead, hoping against hope the skin would rejuvenate. It never did. Dead skin was dead skin for life.
    Shaw tore his eyes away and back to his screen. He’d recommended Campbell for promotion to acting DS, and he had to let her run her own inquiry. Delegation
was a key skill. He just hoped Campbell didn’t let him down, mainly because he didn’t want to see another corpse disfigured by necrosis, but also partly because he’d sensed Valentine’s discomfort at her elevation. Playing second fiddle to Shaw on a murder inquiry was never going to be George’s idea of job satisfaction, and he’d have relished the freedom of running the drugs inquiry, but Shaw needed him: he had a murder inquiry to run, alongside the highly sensitive investigation into the second-home burglaries. And besides, he knew George Valentine well enough to realize that he only really came alive when the victim was dead.
    He sent his DS a text even though he could guess he was only fifty feet away – on the top floor, in the canteen.
    I’ll pick you up.
    Shaw left his door open and took the fire exit steps up to the canteen. Valentine had a favourite table right by the door so that he could enjoy a cigarette outside. The wire mesh platform was littered with cigarette stubs.
    On the table, which was long enough to seat ten officers, the DS had arranged what looked like a jumble of shattered stained glass. There was also a large oval plate reserved by the canteen staff for the fabled St James’ full English breakfast. A clean plate, save for a smear of ketchup. Shaw had a sudden image of three scallops, a sprig of samphire and a lone new potato.
    Valentine sat at the table, but standing at its head was a woman Shaw didn’t know. Petite, almost gamine – a street urchin in suede boots and jeans. Her face was